What You're Missing
by kedgeree
Summary: Sherlock always has it all figured out, but his wilful refusal to factor the influence of love into his calculations on a case makes John want to show him what he's missing. But maybe John is missing something, too. Slash.
1. The Game Is On

**WHAT YOU'RE MISSING**

_How should we like it were stars to burn  
With a passion for us we could not return?  
If equal affection cannot be,  
Let the more loving one be me._

-W.H. Auden

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: The Game Is On**

It was fresh spring day in London. Light morning showers had saturated the city and then dissipated, leaving the clear blue sky to reflect its vivid colours. In Regent's Park the trees were blooming, tufts of white and pink amidst the pale green of new leaves. A pair of fat ducks waddled across the path where John and Sherlock walked side by side.

John had a strut in his step, pleased with the sun on his face. "Ahh! Smell that _air_. Good to get out of the flat on a day like this, isn't it? Glad you decided to join me after all?"

"It is beautiful," Sherlock concurred, gesturing at a patch of wildflowers near a graceful willow tree. A light breeze ruffled his dark chocolate curls. It was warm enough in the afternoon sun that he was wearing only a light shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked uncharacteristically casual and relaxed, which was made especially unusual by the fact that they hadn't had a case for almost a week now. It seemed that the criminals were also occupied with enjoying the recent run of nice weather. Criminals' Lawn Dart League, perhaps?

They continued in companionable silence for a while, Sherlock gesturing occasionally at an eye-catching plant specimen, John nodding and grunting his appreciation, even if he had no idea what he was looking at. The sounds of nearby conversations, children laughing, and distant music mixed with the gentle rustling of leaves.

The music of the day was interrupted when a tinny text alert tone chimed from the pocket of John's light jacket. He pulled out his phone, glanced at it, sighed, and stepped to the side of the path. "Harry."

"So much for our afternoon walk," Sherlock said reproachfully.

John's eyebrows raised as he read the text. "She says call as soon as possible, she may have a case."

"A case of what?"

"Funny." John used his warning voice. "I suppose I should call her back."

Sherlock wandered over to examine a nearby fountain as John dialled his sister's number. He held his long fingers under one of the streams of cool water that ran down from concrete bowls, watching the droplets that splashed off sparkle in the sunlight. It really was a beautiful day.

John paced as he spoke with his sister, head down, frowning slightly in concentration. It wasn't a long conversation. He hung up the phone and jogged over to join Sherlock. "Harry says she has a friend who wants our help. She recommended us to her. Asked if we could take on her case as a favour. Her friend thinks that her girlfriend is in some kind of trouble and she's worried about her."

"And?" Sherlock widened his fingers so the water from the fountain could stream through them, forming five new mini-fountains.

"That's really all she said. She said her friend could give us the details if we'd be willing to meet with her." John put his hand in the fountain, too. The water made his fingers tingle a little.

"How enticingly vague. And most likely highly uninteresting. Did she give any indication at all this is worth my time?"

John withdrew his hand from the fountain and flicked the water from his fingers in Sherlock's face. Sherlock gave him a petulant look and rubbed his face with his shirt sleeve. "It's worth your time because she's my sister and she asked for a little help. "

"You don't get on."

"Still my sister. And still offering us a client. Something to pass the time?" John's tone went persuasive. "We haven't had a case in a bit, as you're well aware. I thought you'd be climbing the walls by now. Or shooting them."

"I'm enjoying a lovely and relaxing day in the park, remember?" Sherlock waved his hands at the lovely and relaxing park, shaking off water droplets in the process.

"Well, I already agreed we'd help her, so…."

"John!"

"We can at least listen. You know you want to."

"I know nothing of the sort," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Oh, come on." John nodded once and checked his watch. "You'll agree eventually and she'll be at the flat in…about twenty minutes. So we may as start back now."

Sherlock sighed and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets sullenly, following John home.

- xxx -

"Ms. Grant, is it? Come in. I'm John Watson." John held open the door for a slender dark-haired woman. She was well-dressed in a plain but sharp-looking fitted grey suit, but her short hair was dishevelled and she had dark circles under her eyes.

"Thank you. Yes, I'm Monica." She shook John's outstretched hand with a firm grip.

They climbed the stairs and John gestured toward Sherlock, who was reclining languidly in his leather chair, long legs crossed, elbows on this armrests, drumming his fingers and inspecting the new arrival. "And this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Monica Grant."

Sherlock nodded toward John's upholstered chair. "Do sit down, Ms. Grant."

She nodded and perched tensely on the edge of the chair. "Thank you for seeing me. Harry…Harry said you would be able to help me." She looked at Sherlock earnestly, lines of tension creasing her brow. Sherlock looked back and waited.

John took his seat behind Sherlock at the desk chair, notepad and pen at the ready. "All Harry told us is that you think your…girlfriend, is it, may be in some kind of trouble?" he prompted.

Her glance bounced back and forth between the two of them. "Yes. Maybe. I don't know." She ran her hands through her hair, clearly reluctant and uncomfortable.

"Excellent summary of the issue." She fortunately missed Sherlock's dramatic eye roll. "Do you have any actual facts to add?"

John poked him in the back of the head with his pen. Sherlock waved a shooing hand behind his head.

Monica moved her hands from her hair to her face, inhaled, and then made a decisive gesture with her hands as if throwing something into the air. "All right. I'm not sure I should be here or be doing this. Behind her back. Behind _her_ back." She laughed once without humour. "But I have to do _something_." She put her hands on her knees, closed her eyes and began. "Emily. My partner. We've been together almost seven years now. Happily together, _blissfully_ happy. But something's happened. Something happened early last month." She re-opened her eyes and stared up at the corner of the room as she spoke. "She got a phone call one evening. She just said it was an old friend, and took the phone into the study to talk, so I didn't hear any of the conversation. But she looked… _wrong_ afterward, even though she tried to brush it off when I asked if she was all right. I didn't think much more about it, though, maybe just a conversation she hadn't enjoyed. But two weeks ago I found out about the money. She…unexpectedly…and without asking me…withdrew fifteen thousand pounds from our joint savings."

John whistled. "That's quite a lot of money."

Monica shrugged. "I might not have even noticed. She usually handles our finances on her own, even though we always discuss major expenses. But I was…" She looked at the floor now and balled her hands into fists. "I was thinking of going away for our anniversary. Somewhere special. As a surprise. I wanted to check our funds."

"Did you confront her about it?" John asked. "Maybe she had a similar idea?"

"No." Monica shook her head. "I asked her, and she… she looked panicked. She said she couldn't tell me what it was for. And please not to ask again and could I just trust her for now." The humourless laugh again. "And there's more. She's been going out more often. All the time. Staying away for hours and not telling me where she's been. If I ask, she just says she can't tell me. And every time I ask, she… she looks more miserable, and withdraws from me even further. We're hardly speaking now. We're not even… any more… " She paused uncomfortably clenched and unclenched her fists.

Sherlock nodded decisively. "Yep. Affair."

John cleared his throat loudly. "Sherlock!"

"What?" Monica looked up.

"Affair. Seems fairly obvious." Sherlock shrugged at her nonchalantly.

"Sherlock, you can't possibly _know_ that—" John began.

Monica leaned forward, her dark eyes snapping with a sudden fierce intensity. "Mr. Holmes, there's one more _fact_ you need to know, and that is that Emily loves me. She is completely faithful to me. She loves me with all of her heart and I do trust her. Make _no mistake_ about that."

"Oh yes, they're always _so_ certain," Sherlock spoke to the air with a tone of exasperation. "This could never happen to _me_! Obviously you trust her, that's why you're here now," he mocked.

"Sherlock," John growled again, but what was the point, really? He'd said Sherlock's name in every tone of disapproval he could think of since he'd known him and it never stopped the man from talking. John thought about starting to carry a handkerchief he could quickly stuff in his friend's mouth when the need arose.

Monica raised her chin challengingly. "Yes, of that I _am_ certain. I love her and she loves me. And I'm guessing you've never been in love. Because those are the people who are _so_ certain it doesn't exist. My Emily loves me. Especially now. I can see it in her face every day. She would not have an affair and would never do anything to hurt me." She wavered slightly. "Not intentionally. Not if she could help it. I trust in that. Something _is_ wrong. She must be in some kind of trouble. I can't even imagine what. But I want to help her. She needs me. And I need you."

John stood up, feeling an unexpected affinity with this stubborn stranger and her sense of conviction. "I'm sure we can help you, Monica."

"John—" Sherlock started to protest, but John quickly stepped directly in front of him. Sherlock huffed and looked at the ceiling, as his direct view was now mostly of John's backside.

"Why don't you give us a few minutes to… discuss the case first," John suggested.

Monica frowned deeply through John at Sherlock and stood up, looking at her watch. "I do need to get back. I didn't really have a lot of time. Emily will be getting home soon. So by all means discuss it. And assuming you're willing to help me, perhaps we can meet again tomorrow first thing? At my flat this time? Emily leaves for work in the morning an hour before I do, so could you come at eight? "

"Of course, that's fine. Why don't you write down your address, number…?" John handed her the notepad and pen. She scribbled down her details.

Sherlock sat silently, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

"I'll see you out," he told Monica, and escorted her down the stairs. At the door to the street, he tried to reassure her, "It will be fine. Whatever else Sherlock may be, he is a genius and an amazing detective. If anyone can help you, it's him."

"Well, thank you… John. I hope you're right."

- xxx -

"Sherlock, what was that? Did you have to be so bloody… _you_?" Returning to the living room, John confronted his friend, who was now lackadaisically flipping through some sort of trashy-looking magazine.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Why waste her time and ours? The truth is obvious, not to mention boring. Guilty phone calls, late nights out, spending money she can't explain. Affair."

"There could be other explanations. Maybe she's…I don't know, being blackmailed?"

"Maybe. But she's not. She's bored with her partner and she's cheating. It's the most likely and almost inevitable scenario. It's what people do."

"It's not what _all_ people do." John protested. "Monica seemed awfully convinced that was not the case. She seemed very sure of their relationship, that her girlfriend does love her. You can't even take that into consideration?"

"Um…no!" Sherlock mocked. "True love? Really? John, are you a _romantic_? That sort of blind faith in another person, despite clear evidence to the contrary, is just foolish. _Sentiment_."

John took a seat in his chair, folding his arms and considering Sherlock for a long moment. His eyes widened with insight. "She was right about you."

"What about me?"

"She said that it's only the people haven't experienced love who don't believe it exists." John recalled. He meant his words to be light, teasing, but they left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Oh, please. I understand the mechanics of _love_ and attraction perfectly well." Sherlock dismissed.

"It's not about _mechanics_," John protested.

"It is. People like to fool themselves there is more to it, but it's really just basic chemistry. There's no mystery to it."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Is this just another inept attempt at inquiry into my personal history?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. "Very well, answer this: How many failed marriages and relationships have you witnessed? How many crimes have we seen committed in the name of _love_? How many times have we seen the promise of love or sex used to manipulate others?"

"Quite a few, " John conceded, "But Sherlock..."

"And if it will help lay the subject to rest, yes, I do have first-hand knowledge confirming the useless and damaging nature of sentiment. In all forms of its expression."

John stilled. Sherlock looked at him directly. Uncomfortably so. John swallowed. His hands felt cold and he crossed his arms so he could tuck them in. "Do you mean…Irene Adler?"

Sherlock's gaze slid away. "An excellent example. But I was referring to previous circumstances."

John's brow furrowed as he tried to interpret Sherlock's exact meaning. "So you have…experimented?" His fingers felt like ice and his chin felt a little numb. It must be getting colder outside.

Sherlock's face took on a subtle tension, and his eyes took on a distant look. "At university. And it would be more accurate to say I was experimented on. But I learned the lesson well enough."

John spoke quietly through teeth that felt like chattering. "What do you mean experimented on?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He looked at John again but now his face was a cold mask. John had a sudden vision of a younger Sherlock, trying to fit in with his peers at university. Thinking he'd at last found acceptance. Affection. Friends? Lovers? And then there was laughter. Ridicule. _Did you think someone actually wanted you?_ _Look at him. Freak_. Shame. John's vision went red-tinged, his hands in tight fists. He would fucking _kill_ anyone who— He blinked it away, breathed out his surprising rage in a slow controlled exhale.

John felt a pang of regret at the turn the tone of the day had taken, after their earlier peaceful camaraderie, but he also felt that there was something very _important_ in this, scratching frantically at the door of his awareness. _At the pool. You thought it was me. _"Sherlock, I was going to say. You know it's not always… like that? It doesn't have to be like that. It can be… better. A lot better." John struggled to find words, to make his voice mild.

"You're an expert in that area, are you?" Sherlock said nastily.

John raised his eyebrows. "I know a thing or two." Or twenty or thirty.

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment, then pulled his knees into his chest and picked up the television remote, turning his attention pointedly away from John. "John, just leave it. This is becoming tedious. If I agree to see Ms. Grant tomorrow, proceeding on the assumption that it is _possible_ her partner may not in fact be having an affair, can we drop this subject now?"

John agreed but remained pensive for the rest of the evening. In bed that night, it wouldn't let him leave him alone to rest. Downstairs, Sherlock was playing a slow, mournful melody on his violin, the type that normally soothed John to sleep. Tonight he lay awake listening, staring at the play of street light and shadow on his ceiling. God, no wonder Sherlock had sworn off sex, relationships, all of it, if that was his only basis for judgment of the whole area. Failed marriages and crimes of passion and… bad experiences in his personal life. It made him deeply sad for his friend as he remembered the pleasure, the comfort of warm words and touches from his own past.

A fluttery knot was forming in John's low belly. He rubbed it absently. His bed sheets felt cool against his bare feet. Sherlock. His strange, sensitive, contradictory friend. So enthusiastic, yet so controlled. So full of life, yet so closed off from it. So sensual, yet so ascetic. So physically graceful, yet so socially clumsy. So beautiful, yet so… beautiful. Brilliant. Amazing. The violin played softly, gently. Sherlock would be swaying in front of the window as he played. John's fingers massaged warm circles on his lower abdomen.

Sherlock deserved to know, no—to _feel_ what real affection was. The problem was that the only person who really cared that much for Sherlock…was John. How could _he_ help Sherlock? How could he even begin to try? What could he do? What was he _willing_ to do? _Ready_ to do? John pictured Sherlock standing in the sun, reaching out to hold his hand in a fountain, and he swallowed and closed his eyes. The hand rubbing his belly beneath the cool sheet slid into his pyjama bottoms. The answer was: anything.

* * *

_Next chapter: Breaking the Rules_

_xxx_


	2. Breaking the Rules

**CHAPTER TWO: Breaking the Rules**

Getting ready to go to Monica Grant's flat in the morning, John was completely preoccupied with second guessing his late night revelation of the turn his feelings for Sherlock had taken. His frustrating, exotic, isolated, idiotic, sublime Sherlock. How could he possibly act on any of these feelings without making a complete fool of himself and a complete mess of their friendship? What the hell was he even thinking? He should just forget it. Everything was fine the way it was. Sherlock was fine the way he was. He didn't need John's poor affections. Pining for some sort of intimate encounter would be the farthest thing from his mind. John knew Sherlock's position on such matters and any attempts to persuade him otherwise always had been and always would be distinctly unwelcome. Even if Sherlock was interested in "that area," what made John think he'd be interested in it with _him_? So it was decided, then. John should just take last night's—romantic fantasy, call it what it was—and put it out of his mind. There. Done.

Sherlock was dressed and sitting in his living room chair reading a newspaper when John padded barefoot and bathrobe-clad from the shower into the kitchen in to make a cup of tea. Sherlock peered over the top of the paper at John in the kitchen. "John? You still have shampoo in your hair."

"Shit." John returned to the shower.

So the real question was _how_ could he give Sherlock that feeling of being, well, adored? Should he try to be subtle? Meaningful looks? Casual touches? Flirt? No. Sherlock would be on to him in a second. The direct approach then. No fear. _So, Sherlock, I just wanted you to know that you are wonderful and last night I thought about touching your penis in a variety of ways whilst touching my own in a very specific way._ Okay, maybe not that direct. _Sherlock, I have feelings for you. And I want to show you. Possibly with my tongue. _Which would Sherlock find more appalling? The "feelings" part or the "tongue" part? Given that Sherlock never mentioned anything related to such emotions without some degree of mockery or disdain, this was all just ridiculous. John Watson was ridiculous.

Hair rinsed, John went straight to his room and dressed. He double-checked himself in the mirror. Shaved. Trousers on. Facing the right direction. Good. And back down to the kitchen again for that cup of tea and perhaps a bite of toast before they left. Sherlock was still in his chair, hidden behind the paper, suit-clad legs crossed comfortably.

John popped a slice of bread in the toaster, put the kettle on, and took his small notepad and pen out of his pocket. What he wanted to convey was...yes, deep affection, admiration. Not lust. Not that there was no lust. There was an unexpectedly intense lust. But that was more of a bonus. John was only human. He liked sex, okay? Well, with women he always had. The principle of the thing seemed the same, though, even if the implementation would be a bit different with a man. He knew how all the parts worked. John sucked on the tip of his pen thoughtfully. But he didn't want to send the wrong message. _Sherlock, you are breathtaking. See it through my eyes, feel it through my hands. _When he came up with a message at all, that is.

He jotted down a helpful list, humming to himself, while he waited for his toast and tea.

#

** SHERLOCK**

RULE 1: My friend, first and always  
RULE 2: Don't be an idiot  
RULE 3: Offer, don't expect  
RULE 4: Say it every day, even if you never say it  
RULE 5: Resist urge to surprise lick :)

#

Not bad. John's toast popped up and he stared at it. "What the hell is wrong with the toaster now?" he muttered aloud to himself. "This is completely burnt."

There was a rustle of newspaper pages. "You toasted the same slice of bread twice," Sherlock called from the living room.

"Shit." John sighed and picked up his mug of tea. It was full of hot water. No actual tea. Right. He looked at the tea bag, still sitting on the countertop. "Oh for fuck's sake." He dropped the cup in the sink and stuffed his notepad into his pocket. "Are you ready to go, Sherlock?"

"I've been ready," Sherlock replied, tossing the paper on the floor, standing, and straightening his jacket.

- xxx -

John felt Sherlock's gaze on him in the cab. He kept his head turned toward the window. It looked like it would be another clear day. Yes, lovely.

"Something on your mind this morning, John?" Sherlock asked with feigned innocence.

"Why do you ask?" John admired a passing bus.

"You've clearly been more than a little distracted. And you have yet to make eye contact with me."

John reluctantly turned to meet his friend's discerning blue eyes. Maybe he should say something? There was sunlight shining on Sherlock's hair. What if he held his hand? He glanced at the long white fingers resting lightly on Sherlock's knee. He looked back up quickly. He was taking too long to respond, wasn't he? Remember Rule Two. "Yes, all right, something's on my mind. But I'm...not going to talk about it. Not just yet." Well-played.

Sherlock scrutinized his friend's face carefully. "Let me guess, then. You've been dwelling on our conversation from last evening." John blinked. "Am I right?"

"What part of 'not talking about it' wasn't clear to you?"

"I said I would keep an open mind about the possible cause of Ms. Grant's partner's _mysterious_ behaviour. So what more could there be for you to be so distracted over? You're taking this woman's so-called case too much to heart."

John pointedly pressed his lips tighter together and looked up at the ceiling.

Sherlock squinted at him. "Oh. It's not about _her_, is it?"

"Damn it, Sherlock." John glared at him in frustration. "Stop _deducing_ at me. I said I didn't want to discuss it."

"It's about me." Sherlock said softly. He frowned, his eyes flickering.

"Sherlock. Just leave it," John insisted, pressing his palms firmly against his thighs and turning his face away again before it could reveal any more secrets.

Sherlock was quiet for the rest of the ride.

- xxx -

Monica Grant buzzed them into the flat she shared with her partner. At the door she peered nervously up and down the corridor, checking for nosey neighbours, John assumed. "Thank you again for coming," she said soberly, inside.

"Ms. Grant." Sherlock nodded to her politely.

Their home was, to John's eye, quite elegant. The decor was modern and simple, but with touches of warmth in evidence. Framed photographs on the bookcases, a crudely-embroidered pillow on one of the fancy chairs, a pair of house slippers peeking out from under the couch, tendrils of well-tended houseplants cascading over shelves.

"So!" Sherlock said in an unconvincingly cheerful tone. "Here we are."

John glanced at him and spoke up quickly. "Have there been any new developments since we spoke yesterday?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Monica frowned and gestured for them to sit down. John sat, while Sherlock began prowling the room and inspecting things. She watched him warily. "I found out that Emily has leased another flat. Her mobile rang last night while she was in the shower and I answered it. Normally I wouldn't, but...you know. It was apparently her new landlord, calling with a question about the length of the lease. Six months, apparently!" Her eyes were haunted.

"That...doesn't sound good," John said, fearing for a moment Sherlock's initial determination that Emily was having an affair might have been spot-on after all. Or maybe she was just leaving her partner.

"I thought she was leaving me," Monica verbalized John's thought. "I begged her not to go and she just...well, she said she _wasn't_ leaving me. And that's all she would say. She was so upset. What am I supposed to think?" Her voice was beginning to pitch higher with stress. Sherlock smirked over his shoulder at John.

"Did you find out where this flat is? Any other details?" John asked, keeping his tone calmly professional.

Monica took a shaky breath. "No. I sort of...panicked. I thought it would sound too suspicious if I asked the landlord anything else."

Sherlock sighed loudly.

"Why don't you tell us a little more about Emily." John said.

"Yes, all right. Well, as I said, we've been together for almost seven years now. That photo you're standing next to, Mr. Holmes, was from when we first knew each other." Sherlock glanced to the bookshelf beside him at a close-up of two smiling women, cheeks pressed together. Monica looked young and vibrant. Emily was blonde and rosy-cheeked, with a slight gap between her top teeth. "We met in America. I was attending graduate school and Emily was a new professor." She smiled faintly in reminiscence. "She works for a consulting company now. Jackson & Long, you may have heard of them? Just part-time."

"Business professor?" John guessed. Monica herself seemed like the corporate type.

"No, English literature. She's a writer at heart."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, indicating their bookshelf. John just saw normal books, not writer books. Whatever.

Monica nodded and continued. "But her job now is writing promotional materials, press releases, keeping the company website updated, that sort of thing."

"You said part-time," John said. "What does she do with the rest of her time?"

"Writes," Monica cast him a too-familiar look that suggested he was being especially slow-witted, and gestured at the doors of what looked like a study, off the main room. "Poetry. Fiction. Sometimes articles for magazines. Or she did. Until recently. _Now_, I don't know what she does. That's why _you're_ here, isn't it?"

"May I?" Sherlock entered the study without waiting for a reply. Monica and John rose to follow him. He wandered through the room, looking around, not touching anything.

"Is it possible that she's being, well, blackmailed?" John hazarded, since Sherlock wasn't saying anything.

Monica shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea who would do such a thing or for what reason. What could Emily possibly be _blackmailed_ about? Besides, she's been through that once already."

Sherlock glanced at her curiously. "Explain."

"In America. She was married. But she wasn't happy and after we met, well, things changed for her. It was hard for her, really hard. It wasn't just the marriage, she has a daughter. When she told her husband that she wanted...a different life...he turned into a horror show. He said a lot of terrible things to both of us. He threatened to ruin her at her job. He threatened me. He convinced her poor daughter that her mother was a bad, unloving person. She was only seven, she didn't know any better. I would have let Emily go, but to go back to that? She was strong. She stood by her own truth, even though it cost her so much. She came away with me in the end."

Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. John thought of Harry and patted Monica's shoulder awkwardly.

"So you see, what could be worse than that?" she asked.

Sherlock wandered back into the living room, started to peer into the other rooms in the flat. John stayed in the study with Monica. "Did she see her daughter again?"

"She hasn't seen her again, but she has been in touch. They talk sometimes, exchange photos, that sort of thing. She wouldn't give up on her, as hard as Richard made it for her."

"I'm sorry to have to ask, but...what about you? Is there anything _you_ might be involved with that someone might use against you? Through your partner? Maybe she's, I don't know, trying to protect you from something? Someone?" John speculated.

"No, nothing at all. We're really just ordinary, quiet people." She ran a finger along the edge of the desk, checked her watch, and sighed. "I need to get to the office, but this is obviously my priority. If there's more I can tell you. What else can I tell you? What else do you need? What should we do next? Anything I can do, I will."

Sherlock had wandered back in. "What's the plan?" John deferred to the actual detective. "Find out where this flat is? What she's leased it for?"

"Yes, I suppose we will see if there are any _surprises_ to be found there."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "We'll be in touch again soon," he said, trying to sound confident.

- xxx -

On the street after Monica saw them out, John turned to Sherlock. "So. How do we find out about this flat?"

"Do you really still see the point in pursuing this?" Sherlock asked dispassionately. "I stand by my original conclusions. It's an affair. Or maybe she's leaving. It will be something tawdry and dull. I saw no evidence to the contrary." He started to walk away toward the main road.

"Except Monica's faith that is not the case. It's a valid factor," John insisted as he followed Sherlock's back, frustrated. "Sherlock, it's like you're going out of your way to be extra difficult on this one, and I'd really hoped you'd give it your attention. For me, if nothing else, because it came from Harry. Why are you so determined to conclude that it can only be 'tawdry and dull'? Just to prove your point that having trust in someone, that loving someone like that is _stupid_?"

Sherlock turned and growled. "John, why are _you_ so determined to be...blinded by naiveté? We've been through this. You can't let sentiment cloud your perception of the truth. It _does_ make you stupid. We're _done_ here." He started walking again.

John grabbed him by the arm. "What? We're not done. What am I supposed to tell her?"

"I don't care. Make something up. You're the one who prefers romantic fiction to fact," Sherlock snapped, trying to pull his arm free from John's grasp. John held on determinedly.

"Sherlock, _damn_ it. You're the one whose perception is clouded, you're so up your own arse about emotions being _weak_. And it's so obvious!" He laughed, but it wasn't funny. "For once it's so obvious to _me_ what _you're_ missing!"

"I'm not _missing_ anything," he spit out angrily. Then his face fell. "I thought you of all people understood me."

Maybe this was John's chance to break through? He softened his hold on Sherlock's arm, but let his fingers squeeze, just a little. "Sherlock, it's not that I don't understand. I just want to...help." John said earnestly. "Last night—"

Sherlock tensed again. "And we're back to that, are we? _Poor lonely Sherlock_?" He voiced a mocking imitation of John. "Is _that_ it? It is, isn't it?" He gripped John's arm in return now. And not softly. His eyes flashed. "And you're Johnny-on-the-spot? 'Helping' me find the friendship I so _desperately_ needed isn't enough now? You want to 'help' _poor Sherlock_ find _love_ as well?" Sherlock scorned.

John found himself backing away, his eyes going wide. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. But then his hand was touching Sherlock's cheek. "Would you even know what to do with it?"

Sherlock's teeth snapped together audibly and John found himself spinning, dragged by the lapels of his jacket around a nearby corner and pressed against a wall just inside an alley. "Sherlock, what the—" Sherlock's mouth clamped to his and took away all his words. The fabric of John's jacket caught on the rough brick behind him, and he braced himself, flattened his hands against the wall. Sherlock kissed him fiercely, invaded and claimed his mouth, a snarl of a kiss, teeth on teeth, silken and sharp and searing. He was growling.

John's brain froze, whited out. John's body blazed, answering heat with heat. People were walking past on the nearby street. Not looking. Not noticing that the entire world had just tilted too far on its axis and spun out of orbit.

Sherlock tore his lips from John's and pressed them to his neck where John's pulse was pounding. "Is _this_ what you want?" Sherlock breathed into his ear, raked his top teeth across his neck, his thigh grinding against John's. He released one of John's lapels and slid his hand down to John's now uncomfortably tight jeans. "I see that it is." His bit down on the skin of John's neck and tugged with his teeth as he pressed his hand to the length of John's achingly bound erection and stroked up once, slowly, firmly. "This is all it ever is." Stroked again, sucked hard at the pulse in John's throat. John moaned.

The unexpected sound snapped him out of his trance. "No!" He shoved Sherlock away from him. "That's _NOT_ what I want."

Sherlock released his grip on John's jacket abruptly and staggered back, panting. "_What_, then?" His eyes were wild and swallowed in black. His lips were swollen. "Do you think I need your _pity_?"

John's breathing was ragged, like something in his chest had broken, but his words came anyway. They were also broken. "It's not pity. It's for you. It's just love. And it's for you. I want you to have it. It's..a gift. I wanted it...to be...like a gift."

"John." Sherlock choked on the name, wrenched his gaze from John's, then turned and walked away.

- xxx -

John wasn't sure how long he stood leaning against the wall, slowing his breathing, recovering himself. It had started to rain when he moved again, just a light spring mist. John walked the long way home in that fog, teeth chattering. When he got to Baker street, he stood outside the door for a long time before he went inside. He didn't want to go in, but it was home and he didn't know where else to go.

The flat was dark. As he walked into the living room, he heard a rustle of fabric from the couch and flipped the light switch. Sherlock sat up in a tangle of dressing gown, pale, dishevelled and squinting in the light. His eyes were raw. And he was holding John's notepad. John put a hand slowly to his empty pocket. Right. It wasn't as though he could really look any more pathetic anyway. He turned away toward his room.

Sherlock reached a hand out to him. "John, wait."

John didn't see. He climbed the stairs slowly.

"Please wait."

He shut his bedroom door. Locked it. Peeled off his now damp clothes and dropped them on the floor. He heard footsteps padding up the stairs, stopping outside his door.

"John? Say something."

John climbed into bed, turned out the light, and burrowed under the covers.

"Please, John. I want to apologize." Sherlock's voice cracked.

John closed his eyes and focused his hearing on the ticking of his bedside clock.

"Please."

More long minutes ticked away and then there was a soft scraping sound from under the door. John opened his eyes and in the dim light he saw his notepad sliding under the crack beneath the door. Sherlock's footsteps finally moved away and retreated down the stairs.

* * *

_Next chapter: Then the Rules Are Wrong_

_xxx_


	3. Then the Rules Are Wrong

**CHAPTER THREE: Then the Rules Are Wrong**

John woke up swaddled in cool sheets and rubbed his eyes, rubbed the stubble on his chin, blinking in the morning light. He looked at the pile of clothes on the floor. Saw his notepad peeking out from under his door. Remembered last night. The alley. Scornful kisses. Aching. His back against the rough wall.

He sighed and sat up, scratching his head, and listened for any signs of activity from the rest of the flat. There were no sounds except for the usual street noises outside, but that didn't mean anything. Sherlock was often quiet. He didn't want to see him again yet. Maybe he could just stay here in bed all day. He sat on the edge of his bed, watching the light from his creep across along the wall, until biological necessity finally compelled him to action. He walked down the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared that Sherlock had already gone out.

In the mirror over the sink, John inspected a new angry red mark on his neck. He showered and returned to his room, stepping over the notebook on the floor. He picked up his clothes, and made his bed. The notebook continued to lie there, jeering at him. He was tempted to kick the fucking thing down the stairs and into the fireplace, but he finally picked it up. He could at least tear out his stupid list and burn that.

The pages that fell open did not reveal John's list, though. A new list had been added, in Sherlock's nigh-illegible scrawl.

#

**JOHN**

RULE 1: My friend, I hope, first and always  
RULE 2: Don't be an idiot  
RULE 3: Observe, don't just see  
RULE 4: Apologize  
RULE 5: Mean it

_I'm sorry. __Please__ forgive me. –SH_

#

John swallowed around a lump that had formed in his throat. He read the page eight more times, closed the notepad and tucked it into his pocket. He touched the mark on his neck.

Now what?

- xxx -

He didn't have too long to ponder the question before his phone rang. Monica Grant's name showed on the display. Shit, what _was_ he going to tell her? Well, he'd think of something. He answered the phone. "Monica?"

"Yes, it's me!" her voice was a hiss. "I'm _here_!"

"You're where?" John glanced out the window.

"At the flat, Emily's flat!" she whispered. "She's inside. I hear voices."

"Wait, how did you find the flat?" John asked. "Where is it?"

Monica gave him an address. He jotted it down in his notebook. "I followed her. She's in there now. I hear raised voices. Should I go in?"

"No, it might be dangerous," John warned.

"I know, and she's in there without me! I'm going in!"

"Just hang on. I'll be there as quickly as I can. Call me back if anything changes."

"Hurry!"

John hesitated, and then texted Sherlock the address Monica had given him. He didn't bother with any further detail or explanation. He grabbed his jacket and ran out the door.

- xxx -

The door to the flat was hanging open when John arrived, and a woman was sobbing. He ran inside and then stopped, taking in the scene. Sherlock was there. He was standing against the wall, arms crossed tightly, head down, like he was trying to blend in with the furniture. Monica's back was to him, and she was facing a shorter woman, blonde and round-faced, whom John recognized from the photographs in their flat as Emily. Emily was the one sobbing. At the far side of the room, a thin and surly-looking man with sparse brown hair sat in an upholstered chair with a blanket over his knees. A lanky teenage girl with hair the same shade as Emily's sat at his feet. The girl was weeping silently, bewildered.

"—when you found out he had cancer?" Monica was saying, aghast. "And you did all this on your own?"

Emily looked stricken. "I was trying to figure out how to tell you. I was afraid you'd think I was, I was...betraying you. After all he did—" She stopped herself, glancing over her shoulder at the girl. "You know. And Alex needs me."

John's mouth hung open as he tried to take it all in. Emily's ex-husband? Daughter?

Monica walked past Emily and stood in front of small, pale Richard, whose jaw clenched as he jerked his head up to met her gaze. "I know I don't deserve this," he said gruffly. "But Alex does." He patted the shoulder of the girl at his feet. "She'll need someone after I'm gone. She'll need a mother."

Monica held out her hand without hesitation. Richard slowly raised his to shake it. "Of course we'll help." His face crumpled and he wiped it with the back of his hand. The girl smiled up at her faintly, and Monica smiled back. "Hello. I'm Monica."

"Hi."

"Just let us know what you need," she said to the girl. "We're going to help you through this. Your mother and I." She turned and reached a hand toward her partner. Emily flew to her and clutched her outstretched hand.

They walked across the room together, and the Emily threw her arms around Monica. "Oh, Monica. I'm so sorry. I should have known you. I shouldn't have been afraid. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, my darling. I always trusted you. I just wanted to help. Whatever happens, I'm always here for you." Their foreheads pressed together. Richard looked away uncomfortably. "I love you so much."

John walked over and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, whispering, "I think it's time to go."

Sherlock touched John's sleeve once, with one finger, uncertainty in his eyes. "John?" he whispered back.

John shook his head and said simply, "Home." They left quietly. John hailed a cab and they rode back to the flat in silence.

- xxx -

They hung up their jackets and stood together at the entrance to the kitchen, facing one another against opposite sides of the doorway. John's arms were crossed. Sherlock's hung awkwardly at his sides.

John didn't know what to say. He waited. "Well?" he finally managed.

Sherlock's right hand twitched once. "I'm sorry." He didn't meet John's eyes, his gaze hovering around his chest instead.

"Yes," John said. I'm sorry, I want you out of here? I'm sorry, let's forget this happened? I'm sorry, let's go snog now? He held his breath.

"I was wrong," Sherlock finally offered.

"About the case, or...?"

"Wrong about _everything_. I don't think I've ever been so wrong." He held a beseeching palm up in supplication, then dropped it back to his side, holding it in place with effort. "John?"

"Yes?" John couldn't seem to remember any other words.

"_Will_ you forgive me?" His voice was small.

"Yes."

Sherlock's indrawn breath seemed to pull him forward to John, but he stopped himself again and leaned back. "I was angry."

Ah, this part wasn't about the case, John was fairly certain. "I got that."

Sherlock's face flushed, darkened. "I was _out of control _with you." His teeth clenched in agitation. "That doesn't happen to me. John, I can't _allow_ myself that kind of weakness. Can't allow my heart to rule my head."

"Maybe you could allow your heart to _support_ your head, then. It just might collapse under its own weight otherwise. Damn it, Sherlock, haven't we _just_ witnessed evidence that emotion, connection, _love_ can be a _strength_?" John pointed out, exasperated.

Sherlock threw his hands open and looked away, shrugging helplessly.

John dropped his voice. "And if you're going to be out of control, by the way, that's a safe place to be. With me."

Sherlock's breath huffed out. "It's not safe for you."

"I trust you, Sherlock."

Sherlock growled his frustration. "_How_ can you say that? After—" He stepped forward and reached a hand toward John. "Can I...?"

John gave him a cautious look and nodded briefly in assent.

Sherlock hesitantly brushed the pad of his thumb over the mark on John's neck, then shut his eyes tightly. "You _know_ what I am. You shouldn't trust me. You're a blind fool if you do."

John touched Sherlock's hovering hand. "I might be a fool, Sherlock, but I'm certainly not blind. I'm not even a little nearsighted. You've jerked me around, manipulated me, and taken me for granted more times than I can count." Sherlock didn't deny it, but his lips tightened. "You can be insensitive and indifferent. You can be a colossal dick. And you know it. You're often quite proud of it."

Sherlock nodded tightly and pulled his hand from John's, stepping back away.

"But Sherlock, two things. The first is that's not _all_ you are. You're much more. And the second is that in your self-absorption once again you've neglected a key piece of information."

Sherlock's eyes twitched. "What?"

"Why don't you want me to trust you?"

"Because I'll hurt you!"

"And you don't want to."

"Of course I don't."

"And that's why I trust you."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh."

"Missed that, did you? Now imagine how much more perceptive even you could be if you allowed yourself to acknowledge, perhaps even participate in, the full spectrum of human emotion. Not just the bad parts."

Sherlock's eyes flickered as if processing the information. "But..."

"Listen. I believe that you have a...a good heart, Sherlock. And, yes, I know you _have_ a heart. I just wish you'd trust me back. I wish you'd let me—" No, don't start that again. The scratching at his consciousness had returned. Switched to a knock. "At the pool. You thought it was me."

"The pool?" Sherlock's brow furrowed, confused by the sudden change of topic.

"Just for a few moments, you thought I was Moriarty. You thought that I had betrayed you. Even though it wasn't true. That's...is that why you don't trust me? Because that doubt is still there?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "Now you're the one who's wrong. I do trust you. I trust you completely," he said simply. John's chest tingled. "One might even say 'blindly.' And perhaps that makes me the fool, but since our first day together I've never doubted you. Not for a second." He ducked his head. "But at the pool...for those few moments, there you were, nevertheless. And for those few moments, my brain shut down."

"Logical contradiction, locked up the computer?"

Sherlock gave him a pained look. "It's not a joke, John."

"Sorry."

"Don't you see? I don't doubt you. I doubt _myself_. Not in my work, obviously. But...outside of it. That's why I can't let it matter. My work is what I am."

"Sherlock, why don't _you_ see? It doesn't have to be that way." John gripped him by the shoulders, almost shaking him. "You don't have to cut off that part of yourself. Not anymore. I want you to have that part, too. And if you do trust me, that means you trust me to...help you find it. _Not_ because you're weak. But because it could make you stronger. And because you deserve it."

Sherlock's eyes searched John's. "A gift," He said softly.

John felt himself blushing, and looked at the floor. "Yes."

"How?" Sherlock asked slowly. "What is it exactly you're proposing?"

John sucked in a breath. Okay, a sales pitch. He could do that. "A...demonstration. A direct and physical demonstration. It's...well, there may be other ways, but it's the best way I know. That I might be...effective at." God. Sherlock's expression was one of intense concentration, unblinking, like he was figuring out the final clue in a puzzle. He forced himself to keep his head up, hoping Sherlock could read his sincerity in his face, and forged on. "I don't mean sex. It's not about sex. Sex is…well, _can be_ a part of it." Sherlock's thigh against his. Teeth tugging at his lip. John shook his head. "But it's not about that. It's about being cared for. Being loved." Heart, meet sleeve. Sleeve, this is heart. Fuck it, his cards were already on the table. "That's what I want to give you. Even if it's just once. That feeling. I'd like to try. Very much. And if you don't like it, that could be end of it. But you should tell me. If you do like it. Because then I could do it again. I hope you do. Like it. Let me try." You should probably shut up now, John. He trailed off and waited, heart pounding.

And waited.

The silence stretched horribly. Sherlock was just staring at John, his face now unreadable and still.

Panic beat its wings in John's chest. Sherlock was going to refuse, of course he was. Be forced to back away from John slowly. Or quickly. He'd gone too far, burned the bridge. No. He couldn't lose his best friend. Whatever else he might lose, he couldn't let that happen. "Or not. Shit. Okay, I should never have suggested this. Forget it. Fuck. I've made a mess of things. Can't we rewind, go back to before this started and…delete it, or whatever it is you do. Just forget it? "

"Yes."

Waves of both disappointment and relief broke over his chest. "Yes? You can just delete this whole thing?"

"No. I mean yes. Yes, I accept. I would like to accept your offer."

_Oh._

_God, yes._

* * *

_Next chapter: Check_


	4. Check

**CHAPTER FOUR: Check**

"Alright then. That's...that's excellent," John stammered as the flush of possibility crawled up his body. "Thank you." John lunged awkwardly at Sherlock and pulled his friend into a hug, knocking a surprised "uff!" out of him. He threaded his arms under Sherlock's and around his back tightly.

Sherlock stood stiffly for a moment, then his arms encircled John in return. "Shouldn't I be the one thanking you? It's my gift, after all."

"You can decide. Afterward," John murmured into Sherlock's shoulder and gave him a little squeeze.

Sherlock huffed a little laugh and relaxed with a sigh. He squeezed John right back. They stood together for a moment in the kitchen doorway, their flat, their home, rocking back and forth in their hug. "This!" Sherlock announced earnestly.

"What?" John drew back to look up at him.

Sherlock dropped his eyes and shrugged diffidently. "You said to tell you when I like something. I like this."

John smiled. "Me too."

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "Is this...it, then? Have we started?"

John stood back and took hold of Sherlock's hands, looking up at him. "No, there's more." What was _more_ going to consist of, actually? John didn't have a plan. He honestly hadn't thought this far ahead. Not in detail. But this wasn't the time to hesitate. John Watson was a man of action, after all, and so he forged ahead. "But we can start now," he said. "If you're ready?"

Sherlock looked down at their interlocked fingers and deadpanned, "I'm in your hands."

"Let's go over here." John led Sherlock to the sofa. He kicked off his shoes and arranged the pillows so that they looked comfortably-placed at one end. John pointed to the sofa. "Lie down?" Sherlock pulled off his own shoes and wordlessly arranged himself along the length of the couch. "And I'm going to be here, okay?" John climbed onto the couch and knelt over Sherlock, straddling his thighs. They settled in. John looked down at Sherlock.

His hips pinned rather intimately under John's, Sherlock's composure faltered. "Is this when I...?" He looked down at himself and then back up at John's face hesitantly. "Do...you want me to...?" He raised an uncertain hand to one of the dark buttons on his pale grey shirt, pausing for confirmation.

The unexpected display of vulnerability floored John for a moment.

How could this be the same man whose arrogance was so palpable? The same man who had slammed John into a wall and snarled into his mouth, all teeth and venom? He looked so very young. _Experimented on._ It turned out Sherlock with his defences down was just as alarming—in an entirely different way—as Sherlock in his full sociopath's armour. John's urge to protect this rare, hidden side of Sherlock flared almost unbearably, but he kept his eyes soft, his breathing calm. He stilled the hand Sherlock was moving to flick open one of his shirt buttons. "No, love." The endearment was automatic. "It's not about that. You don't have to do anything. And I won't do anything without asking you. I promise."

Sherlock nodded, looking confused, and let his hands rest next to his sides on the sofa.

"Is this okay? Can I just look at you?" John asked.

Sherlock paused and then nodded again, his eyes still questioning. He watched as John's gaze skimmed his face, throat, torso. John was aware that Sherlock would know, objectively, that he was nice to look at. Beautiful by many people's standards...including John's. He knew how to use it when he needed to and to ignore it when he didn't. His skin looked pale and cool, but John imagined—remembered—it was quite warm.

"Can I touch you?" John's fingertips brushed over the fabric of Sherlock's shirt where it covered his stomach. "Like this? Nothing more."

Sherlock swallowed and replied in a hushed voice. "Yes." And so John resumed his inspection, and this time where his eyes roamed, his fingers followed reverently: a dark curl on Sherlock's forehead, the silly freckle on his brow, thick eyelashes, tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the soft hair at his temples, the delicate curve of his ear, sharp planes and angles of his face, shadowed hollow of his throat, his mouth, sculpted cupid's bow and lush lips, parted slightly, so often raining cold words, but made for warm kisses... John's gaze and touch both lingered.

"You want to kiss me." Sherlock observed. John didn't deny it. "I want you to." Sherlock offered quietly.

John leaned forward slowly and did give him a soft kiss, not on the mouth, but just beside it on his cheek. Sherlock reached for John as he sat back, but John intercepted his hand. "Wait." He pressed his lips to the centre of Sherlock's palm. Then to the inside of his wrist. Touched the fluttering pulse there with his lips. Sherlock's breath drew in.

John returned Sherlock's hand to the sofa with a gentle squeeze and took a deep breath, gathering himself. He knew now what he wanted to do. His body and brain were humming in harmony. He started to unbutton his own plaid cotton shirt. He tossed it aside and pulled the white t-shirt he had on underneath over his head and tossed that aside, too. Sherlock moved his hands from the sofa to rest them on the tops of John's thighs. John held them there lightly, feeling their warmth through the denim of his jeans. He caught Sherlock's eye, and then gestured down with his head and eyes at his body to indicate that Sherlock should look at him in turn.

He knew Sherlock would need no more than a glance to assess him, had already had ample time in their acquaintance to see anything of him he needed or wanted to see. But this was different. He kept his eyes down, but he thought he could feel Sherlock's gaze travel across his skin in a trail of sparks. John's lips parted, his tongue darting out to moisten them, as he imagined Sherlock looking at his mouth. He felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his stand up as Sherlock inspected him. He let himself be vulnerable to eyes that would miss nothing. John was not sensitive about his appearance, but he thought of it as basically average. He wasn't so young. He was scarred. He was in good health, with a certain power in his compact frame, but his belly was soft. His body had always served function over form. No Greek statues here. Nothing to hide.

Sherlock squeezed his hands on John's thighs and started to speak, but John shook his head and he stilled. John took Sherlock's hands and started to move them, rubbing them against the denim of his jeans. Then he slowly pulled them up, just skimming his chest along the way, to rest lightly at the sides of his throat. He released them there and closed his eyes again, waiting. Sherlock's fingers hesitated, then moved across the rough stubble of John's jaw, the bridge of his nose, ran lightly though his hair, touched his lips, his eyelids.

Finally Sherlock's hand lingered on the scar on John's shoulder, exploring it. Then he once again, so briefly, touched the mark he had made on John's neck. John shivered and opened his eyes. Sherlock's own eyes had darkened with emotion.

John caught one of Sherlock's hands and pressed his palm to his own heart, skin to skin. "Now listen to me, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes were huge. Another deep breath, and the truth flowed out of John. "This is all that I am. It might not be anything extraordinary." John shrugged. "But I love you. You're the most fascinating, exciting person I've ever known. And you're strange and you're flawed and you'll never be perfect, but you're going to keep trying. You're always surprising and you're completely intoxicating. And I love every last centimetre of you. I love you when you're being brilliant. When you're being an idiot. When you're showing off. When you're cocking everything up. When you're happy. When you're sulking. When you're making me laugh. When you make me want to cry. You're my best friend and you're a _good_ friend. I know you might not feel the same way. I will still love you. More than I ever knew was possible. With everything that I am."

By the end of John's declaration, Sherlock's eyes were shimmering. His hand on John's chest had balled into a fist.

"Do you understand?" John moved his hand to touch Sherlock's face, and a fat tear rolled from the corner of Sherlock's eye into the hair at his temple. John leaned in to press his lips there and kiss it, tasted the salt on his tongue, and whispered in Sherlock's ear, "I love you." Another tear, and John kissed that one, too. Sherlock flung his arms around John's body, so tight, so very tight, and trembled. "Are you alright?" John stroked his hair. A pause, and then Sherlock nodded. "Are you sure?" Another nod, and a sniffle. "Do you want me to stop?" Sherlock shook his head no.

They held one another for several minutes, John dropping kisses onto Sherlock's temple, his forehead, between his eyes, the top of his ear, his hair. Sherlock kept his eyes closed and eventually his tension eased. "Okay?" John asked again.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered thickly.

"I love you." John repeated.

Sherlock looked at John and smiled wonderingly. "I know."

And John thought his heart might actually explode.

Sherlock tugged at his arm. "John, _now_ can I kiss you?" His low voice was beseeching.

"Please," John breathed. He leaned forward so that he was resting on Sherlock completely, chest to chest, and touched Sherlock's lips with his own. If the previous day's kiss—had it only been yesterday?—had been a ferocious protest, this kiss was a whispered question. John let Sherlock take the lead, and his kiss was sweet and open and unsure, his tongue sliding so very softly and slowly against John's. "Yes" and "more" were soundless on the tip of John's tongue as he coaxed Sherlock's mouth to follow his, like coaxing a wild horse with sugar. And Sherlock followed, a sensual animal, arching underneath him, his luxuriant kiss deepening with intensity. John made a small, insistent noise at the back of his throat, suddenly _very_ aware of Sherlock's body beneath his.

They broke apart and stared at each other. John could feel Sherlock's heart knocking against the wall of his chest, pounding just as fast as his own.

"Wow," John said.

Sherlock blinked at him slowly. "Yes."

John reached for one of Sherlock's curls. "If you don't mind, I'm going to pretend _that_ was our first kiss."

Sherlock gave him a startled look.

John winced in concern. "Just teasing you a bit. Too soon?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I just...really liked how that sounded. _Our_ first kiss. Our _first_ kiss. It's...good."

John chuckled his relief.

Sherlock perked up. "And the kiss itself. I liked that too." He looked at John expectantly.

"Er, so did I?"

Sherlock's face fell. "John. You _also_ said if I told you when I liked something, that you would do it again."

"Oh, I see." A mischievous smile bloomed on John's face. "Well, then, I _am_ a man of my word," John murmured, wrapped his arms around his Sherlock, and kissed him for all he was worth.

- xxx -

The afternoon sun warmed a patch of brown leather on the sofa where John and Sherlock were intertwined in a haze of leisurely mutual exploration. They had at some point switched positions so that Sherlock now lay on top of John. _Of course_, John thought fondly. It was cool in the flat, so John had pulled his t-shirt back on, but his face was flushed and his short hair stuck out in all directions in wild spikes. Sherlock's lips were swollen, and his eyes looked drugged. John thought drowsily that there was not any part of either of their necks or faces or collarbones that had not been thoroughly kissed. His skin buzzed, even where Sherlock's lips had not touched him yet.

"John?" Sherlock nudged at John's chin with his nose.

"Mm?" John pressed a kiss near Sherlock's ear.

"What happens now?"

"Maybe...tea?" Some of the flutters in John's stomach were from hunger by now. "You could eat something, too?" He poked Sherlock in the ribs, and Sherlock squirmed delightfully.

"Not _right_ now." Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John's. "After."

John brushed his fingers back and forth across the shorter hair on the back of Sherlock's neck. "After what, love?"

"After this. After today. Will we do this again? When will we do this again? Will we do more? When will we do more? What will we do? Do you want to have sex? When would we have sex? Which ways would we have sex? Would we sleep in the same bed afterward? Is that too much? Will everything change? Do we want people to know about us? Or is there not going to be anything to know after this? Will it be like this never happened? Will things go back to the way they were? Why can't we—"

"Sherlock!" John gulped and gave him a little shake. Sherlock paused mid-sentence, mouth still open. "Okay, get up. Sit up for a minute." Sherlock grumbled, but slid off of John. They re-seated themselves, legs tucked in so they could face each other on the couch. John rubbed Sherlock's knee. "That was a lot of questions. I'm not sure I got them all."

Sherlock took a breath. "I said: After this. After today. Will we do this again? When will—"

"Sherlock, stop!" Sherlock stopped obediently. John rubbed his face with his hand, not sure if he was smiling or frowning or attempting some strange hybrid of the two. "I'm not sure I know all these answers. What do _you_ want to happen?"

Sherlock looked down a little shyly at John's hand on his leg. "Yes, I want to do this again. Hopefully very soon. Yes, I want to do more. I'm not sure when. Probably...also very soon. I'm not sure what else. Well...actually, I do have _a few_ ideas." He glanced up at John with a glint in his eye. "Twenty-seven, so far, and—"

"Okay, pause!" John held up a hand, starting to feel like Sherlock's remote control. Sherlock paused. "Yes, I'm...did you say _twenty-seven_...?"

Sherlock's grin was utterly wicked. "So far." He pressed forward into John.

That slow heat that had been simmering in John's lower belly all day was starting to rise. "Sherlock, I'm _definitely_—"

"Shh!" Sherlock tilted his head, listening.

Footsteps, and the door from the landing to the kitchen opened. "Woohoo!"

"Shit!" John bolted upright, unceremoniously knocking Sherlock onto the floor in a tangle of knees and elbows.

"Sherlock, are you there?" Mrs. Hudson's voice carried over the rustle of bags. "I got the milk you asked me to pick up for John." The sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, for once not followed by any cries of alarm at its contents. "Sherlock?" She peeked into the living room. "Oh, am I interrupting something?"

Sherlock sat on the floor, wedged between the couch and coffee table, rubbing his shin and glaring at John. John stood over him, wide-eyed, holding a pillow in one hand and a book on the history of false teeth in the other.

"No." John said, too loudly, as Sherlock responded simultaneously, "Yes."

Mrs. Hudson blinked at them and her hand flew to her face. "Oh, boys!"

* * *

_Next chapter: What comes after check...? Mate, of course!_

_xxx_


	5. Mate

**CHAPTER FIVE: Mate**

"Artfully handled, John," Sherlock said from the floor after Mrs. Hudson beat a delighted and slightly flustered retreat back down the stairs. "Were you going to hit her with the pillow or read her a story by way of distraction?"

John looked at the book in his hand, scowled, and dropped it on the coffee table. "Sorry. I panicked," he muttered, pushing the table a little farther away and sinking down onto the floor next to Sherlock, leaning back against the sofa. He hugged his pillow to his chest and rubbed his chin against the soft fringe around its edge. "I guess that answers that question about people knowing about us. At least one person. You know what she thinks we're up here doing now, don't you?"

"Problem?" Sherlock challenged.

John bumped his shoulder against Sherlock's. "Sherlock, that sort of thing is just _private_. And I'd rather people didn't assume I was shagging someone I haven't actually shagged yet."

Sherlock was silent and John lifted his chin from the pillow to look at him. Sherlock was regarding him contemplatively. "I think we've moved to another outstanding question."

"What?"

"'Yet.' You said someone you had not been intimate with '_yet_.'" Sherlock looked at him and waited.

"I said 'shagged,'" John said, eyes twinkling. "It was sounding like...Is that a thing you want? I know you've said 'not your area' and all that bollocks, but things seem to have changed rather significantly recently, so...?" John clicked his teeth together hopefully, just on the edge of a nervous chatter.

Sherlock leaned against him. "Yes, I thought spending half the day on this sofa with me might have informed you that my _area_ has recently expanded a bit." John's loud snicker was irrepressible, and Sherlock spluttered, "Well, yes, that, too. Shut up! You know what I mean! What about _you_? I have been reliably and _repeatedly_ informed that you are_ not gay_."

"Because I'm not!" John protested immediately, then blushed. "Although, yes, _granted_ I did in fact just spend half the day snogging another man." He tossed his pillow aside and reached for Sherlock's hand.

"You also sat on me," Sherlock pointed out with enthusiasm, lacing his fingers with John's. "And you let me lie on top of you."

"Thank you, yes, I remember. But Sherlock, it's not a _man_, it's _you_." Sherlock huffed in offense and John tugged at his hand. "You know what I mean!"

Sherlock sighed. "It's true. I put that part of myself away a long time ago. But a friend of mine has recently convinced me to reconsider. And I want to...come out and play now. With you."

John's toes curled. "And I want to give you everything you've ever wanted," he blurted out.

Sherlock drew back in surprise. "But John, you already have. I just didn't know, before. You...you touch me like you know I'm actually inside my body looking out at you." John blinked. "You care about what I want. And even more about what I need. We have _fun_. I can say 'we' now. You know me and you're still my friend." Sherlock's expression was earnest. "And you said..._I'm_ a good friend."

John's throat tightened. "You are. My best friend." He smiled shyly. "First and always."

Sherlock regarded him solemnly, then rose gracefully to his feet. "And right now...I'm taking my friend out for dinner. And yes, it _is_ a date."

John gazed up at him before clambering to his feet as well. "Well, alright." A pause in the action, and he _was_ feeling quite hungry by now. "I'll just go and change, then?"

Sherlock caught his arm as he moved away and his gaze swept John's chest. "Will you wear the red shirt?"

John's eyebrows flew up. "You're dressing me now?"

"No, I'm _asking_ you. Nicely," Sherlock responded primly. "Because you look handsome in it."

"I always look handsome," John asserted, smiling, "but since you asked _nicely_. And in that case—"

"I know, the purple." And the cocky little sod winked at him.

- xxx -

John had suggested Angelo's, but Sherlock instead brought him to another rather more posh Italian restaurant, also within pleasant walking distance. A soft evening breeze ruffled their hair as they walked, not holding hands but walking close enough so their fingers brushed occasionally. Sherlock apparently also knew the owner there, because although the restaurant seemed busy, they were led through a low archway near the back to a very private and cosy candlelit brick-lined alcove with a dark red rug and a reserved table for two. Sherlock pressed a guiding hand to the small of John's back as they passed through.

They chatted amiably and affectionately through their meal, trading bites of food and flirtatious glances. Their legs touched under the table. Sherlock's laughter was low and rolling. Soft violin music floated along the ceiling. John was feeling well-warmed and mellow by the time their waiter brought them each a glass of chilled sparkling wine and a dessert for John. The candlelight flickered in the dark centres of Sherlock's pale eyes as he watched John tuck in. "Sherlock, are you sure you don't want any?" Succulent spring strawberries in cream on a lemony slice of cake, followed by sips of wine that sent bubbles buzzing to tease John's nose.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his body a long, lithe line from throat to hip, and shook his head _no_ with a little smile.

"All this to myself. I feel quite spoiled." John sucked a blob of cream from his thumb.

Sherlock took a sip of his own wine and John's tongue tingled in response. "Well, it's your turn. To feel spoiled."

"I get a turn?" John grinned, chewing happily. "I'm pleased enough that I got to finish a meal."

"I love you, too."

Sherlock's voice was so low John almost didn't register the words at first. His heart thumped. "Yeah?" he managed.

"Yes. Absolutely. Consummately, if I can. With my full and complete dedication, attention, and devotion." Sherlock leaned forward, elbows resting on the white linen tablecloth. His voice was still low, sensual, and John leaned forward as well, drawn in. The candle flickered between them on the table. Sherlock's eyes were like smoke. "I love you and you're mine now. And I'm going to take _very_ good care of you."

John swallowed and put his fork down. He lifted his serviette from his lap and placed it carefully on the table. "Sherlock, we need to go home," he said with quiet determination. "Right now."

- xxx -

John would have run all the way home had it not been for that accursedly delicious dinner slowing him down. As it was, he still ended up dragging his longer-legged companion by the sleeve most of the way back to their flat. As soon as they'd closed the door to the street, John shoved Sherlock against the hallway wall. Sherlock's teeth were bared, his eyes hungry on John's throat.

"We should go back to the park tomorrow," John remarked lightly. He leaned into Sherlock and nudged his nose into the hollow of his throat and inhaled deeply. Sherlock flattened his hands against the wall and tilted his head back. "It's supposed to be another lovely day." John opened the top button on Sherlock's shirt and ran his tongue across the ridge of one of his collarbones. He opened another button, pulled the purple fabric apart and kissed the white skin beneath at the centre of Sherlock's chest. Inhaled again there. "You're sure about this?"

"Very, very sure," Sherlock groaned. "Let's _go_."

John led Sherlock up the stairs by the hand.

Crawling onto Sherlock's bed seemed illicit and thrilling, like sneaking into your girlfriend's bedroom when you weren't supposed to be there. Not girlfriend now. Boyfriend? John rolled the word around in his head as Sherlock threw his jacket on the nearby chair and unlaced his shoes. The mahogany sleigh bed was large and felt much more luxurious than John's own. The soft, crumpled sheets that had touched Sherlock's skin so intimately were imbued with his scent. And now Sherlock stood by the side of his own bed looking down at John as though he was the one who belonged in it. He reached for Sherlock's arm and pulled the freshly shoeless detective down on top of him.

Sherlock scooted into alignment with him and pressed his body into John's, his eyes dark and lustful. "What do you want, John?"

John pulled him down for a long, deep kiss that made beads of sweat break out on the back of Sherlock's neck. "I want to kiss you until your legs stop working," John informed him as his hands explored Sherlock's back, counting each vertebra along the ridge of his spine through the soft cotton of his shirt. "And I want you out of your pretty shirt."

Sherlock shivered and whispered a shaky, "And then?"

John pressed his head back into Sherlock's pillow and laughed giddily. "No fucking clue. But let's find out." He pulled Sherlock closer for another hungry kiss. Their chests, hips, thighs, pressed together. Sherlock rocked his hips once and moaned.

"Sherlock." John grabbed the back of Sherlock's collar and tugged it down. "If you don't take this off, I will tear it off of you." Sherlock rolled off him and flew to comply in an ungainly scramble of limbs, throwing his shirt across the room. "The rest, too," John waved a hand at Sherlock's bottom half as his hands moved to his own tasks of unfastening. He stripped down efficiently, adding his boxer shorts, jeans, socks, and shirt to the clothing tornado. Sherlock hopped on one leg trying to remove one of his socks, bumped into his dressing table and fell over. John stretched across the bed on his stomach to snigger at him.

"Why do I keep ending up on the floor?" Sherlock muttered, kicking off his trousers.

"I did warn you about the legs." John grinned harder. He wriggled a little against the sheets, letting them touch him where they had once touched Sherlock, growing harder in response to their surrogate caress.

Sherlock stood and peeled off his final article of clothing. John's mirth died in his throat. He pushed himself up to a kneeling position in the centre of the bed. Every part of Sherlock was long and sleek and pale and enticing and John ogled his body shamelessly. Sherlock watched him with a curious half-smile. "You like the way I look."

"I really do." John puffed a laugh, sparing a glance down at his attentive erection. "You're gorgeous. But even if you weren't, you would be." He suspected his last words hadn't made any sense, but a strangely grateful look flitted across Sherlock's face.

"That's why I like the way _you_ look at me." Sherlock knelt on the bed in front of John, sitting back on his ankles with his knees slightly apart, in a pose that merged exhibition and supplication. "Touch me."

John's first touch, his palms on the tops of Sherlock's thighs, was reverent. He slid his hands toward Sherlock's hips, hitching his thumbs in the crease where they folded into his legs, and reverence was replaced with exhilaration. "You first," he whispered with a tug at Sherlock's hips, eyes intent on Sherlock's. "I want to watch."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, lips parting. His hand went to his own erection, curling around it with long, white fingers.

"Wait," John stopped him. "Give me your hand." Sherlock blinked and opened his hand. John took it and sucked Sherlock's thumb into his mouth. Sherlock shuddered and John licked his palm and fingers so they were shiny with his saliva. "Now."

Sherlock took himself in hand and began to stroke steadily. He tongued his top lip in the same rhythm, like a child who was concentrating very hard.

John stared, mouth open, riveted by the movement of Sherlock's hand, imagining, anticipating the warmth and strength of that hand on his own cock. "Close your eyes," he instructed Sherlock, who complied, tipping his head back as well. John inched forward on his knees so he could slide his hands across Sherlock's ribs and up to brush across his nipples. "What do you wish I would do?"

Sherlock groaned as the skin of his chest broke out in gooseflesh, and John saw his fingers twitch and tighten. His own cock throbbed in response. "Anything. Everything. I want your hand on me, like mine is now."

"Sherlock, look," John directed, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. John licked his own palm, eyes on Sherlock's, and replaced Sherlock's hand with his own. Sherlock hissed through his teeth. They both rose up on their knees so their bodies pressed together. John pressed himself against Sherlock and put his mouth against Sherlock's ear. "What else?" He starting stroking Sherlock slowly.

Sherlock groaned again and grabbed hard John by the flesh of his buttocks, drawing his hips closer, thrusting against them now with his own. John's hand jerked tightly between their bodies. Sherlock's voice dropped into its lowest register and words started to tumble out. "I want to watch you, too. Your face, the way you respond. To everything. I like watching you eat. Did you know that? You lick your lips and your eyes roll back and you make noises. It's like you're eating sex." He pressed his mouth against John's shoulder. John felt his teeth and tongue there, but he continued to speak. "And I think about how _you_ would taste. Tonight with the strawberry, you licked the cream off it and you sucked it and you moaned and said it was so good and...your voice and...then you bit it and I thought I would pull you across the table right there." His voice was hypnotic and primal, and he slid a hand from John's arse to squeeze between their bodies along with John's hand, wrapping around John's cock in return, smearing his leaking pre-ejaculate around the tip with his thumb. "Right there," he repeated in a ragged, broken whisper. John rocked forward, gasping, realising he was starting to lose control. Sherlock tugged up sharply. "Right _there_. And then you'd be _my_ strawberry and I would taste you, suck you, bite you, and I would be the one who said how good you tasted and licked all the cream off. Swirl my tongue around you just the way you did it. Would you like that?" His voice was the low rumble of distant thunder now, and John felt electrified. "Would you let me taste you like that?"

Sherlock pulled back far enough to stare down between their bodies at their hands grasping and sliding on each other, and his lips curled into a little snarl of arousal, his teeth pressed together. John felt it as if those teeth were actually on him, raking his sensitive skin, and he was about to erupt if he heard one more word.

"Shhhrrr...Jesus. Yes. Stop talking, Stop moving. Stop," he said urgently. Sherlock's smile flashed audaciously and he opened his mouth again and flicked his wrist around John's cock. John grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped them over, manoeuvring himself so he was on top of Sherlock and pressing his lips to Sherlock's savagely to enforce his order. "Oh, no you don't," he growled into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock made a sound that started with a squeak and ended with a deep moan that made John's thighs tremble. He slid his whole body against Sherlock's, trying to burrow into him, and kissed him again. John no longer thought about technique, the artifice of love-making. He kissed with nothing but need and the need to pleasure.

Sherlock bucked up and wrapped himself completely around John, long legs around his hips and arms around his shoulders, kissing him back greedily, demandingly. Their hips ground together in a mutual rhythm, their hands everywhere on each other, and a hot, wet, friction building between them as they slid and humped against each other.

John was so close now, but _Sherlock first_ floated through his haze of lust. He rolled off Sherlock and pushed him onto his side, pressing his chest to Sherlock's back and wrapping one of his legs around Sherlock's, pinning them down.

"John?" Sherlock tried to crane his head around to look at him.

"It's okay, love." John wrapped one arm under Sherlock's neck, so he could touch his face, feel his hair, and his other hand reached over Sherlock's hip and found the hot slick heat of his erection again, squeezing. "I've got you." Sherlock made an inarticulate sound that John interpreted as compliance.

How did Sherlock like it? John tried working him the way he worked himself when he was close to coming. Maybe like this? Harder? Faster? Sherlock groaned. Better. Move the thumb there? Flick at the end? Squeeze? Over the tip? Twist?

"Szzne!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What?"

"I don't know," Sherlock gasped, "just do that again!

Sherlock was thrusting himself into John's hand now. John's own cock was pressed thickly and conveniently between the top of Sherlock's arse cheeks in a musky patch of sweat and pre-come, and as Sherlock jerked his hips John moaned in response and rutted against the man helplessly. His hand slid up and down on Sherlock in a steady rhythm. John pressed the fingers of his other hand into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock was making little grunting, animal sounds and he sucked and bit at John's fingers_. A little faster. A little harder. You beauty. Thumb goes there. That's it._ John bit down on Sherlock's shoulder, tongued the salty sweat on his skin, and groaned into it. _That's it. Look what I'm doing to you. You fucking glorious beauty_.

"John!" Sherlock gasped desperately, curling himself around John's fist. "I can't...don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop—" Sherlock's hand groped blindly for John's thigh, hiking it up around his own.

John squeezed himself around Sherlock's quivering body, moved his hand from Sherlock's mouth to grab a handful of curls on the back of his head and pull. "Never. Give me everything. You're mine. You're my angel."

Sherlock's eyes flew open as his back arched, and John's name was a guttural primitive cry on his lips as his fingers clawed at John's thigh, his hips jerking wildly as he released himself entirely into John's hand. John ground himself into Sherlock, desperately attempting to infuse him with the intensity of his own helpless orgasm, semen-coated hand slipping against Sherlock's stomach as he tried to pull him even closer.

- xxx -

After a hazy interval of panting soft words and softer kisses across each other's sticky skin, John and Sherlock reluctantly disengaged and took short turns cleaning themselves up in the shower. John collected and donned his pyjama bottoms while Sherlock, still wrapped in his bath towel, traded out the well-mussed sheets with fresh almond-coloured ones. John was grateful to discover there was a clean set on hand, since apparently Sherlock's bed was going to be _their_ bed.

John couldn't stop himself from grabbing Sherlock from behind and pulling him into a hug as he fluffed out the top sheet, planting a kiss on the back of his neck. Sherlock paused and held onto John's arms, wrapped around his waist. "You're dripping on me," John mumbled into him as droplets from Sherlock's shower-dampened curls fell onto his forehead and nose. "I'll need this." He tugged the towel from Sherlock's hips and rubbed at Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock stood quietly through John's ministrations, then turned, tousled and sleepy-eyed, and skimmed his fingers along the back of John's arm. "Bedtime?"

John nodded and tossed the towel through the door to the adjoining bathroom. He climbed into bed and under the sheets, taking the left side so that if they faced one another his dominant left hand would be free for...whatever might come up. The sheets didn't smell of Sherlock, but John consoled himself that soon they would smell of both Sherlock and himself. Sherlock joined him, to John's delight not bothering with any clothing, and they leaned into each other, propped up on pillows against Sherlock's headboard. Their headboard, John corrected. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and the top of one of his feet against Sherlock's leg underneath the covers.

Sherlock pulled John's hand onto his bare belly and began playing with his fingers, drowsily tracing each one with his own in turn. "Sorry, John," he murmured eventually.

John blinked at him. "What? For what?"

"John, I didn't do it right. I had a _plan_, I had...numbers three and seventeen and twenty _at least_...I was going to be the one to take care of _you_ and you were going to say I was _fantastic_ and _amazing_, but I just—" He made an explosive motion with his free hand.

John laughed before he could stop himself and shook his head in dismay. "Sherlock, you really are a complete idiot." He softened his words with a kiss to Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock pouted and cocked his head to one side. "I was wondering what our pillow talk was going to be like."

John snorted another laugh. "In case you missed it, I—" John made the same hand gesture. "—too. All over your backside. Not my best demonstration of finesse."

Sherlock perked up. "That's true."

"Sherlock, it was _perfect_. You do know that, don't you? You _are_ fantastic and amazing. Your—" explosive hand motion "—turns out to be the most ridiculously hot thing I have ever experienced in my life. And I'm feeling pretty damn well 'taken care of' right now."

Sherlock's cheeks turned a very pleasing shade of pink, his lips curling into a smile.

"Ah, there's the smug bastard I know and love." John wiggled a finger against his stomach.

"No tickling!" Sherlock squirmed. "You look smug, too."

"Of course I'm smug." John gave Sherlock a tight squeeze around the waist. "Look what I got today."

Sherlock chuckled, looking even more smug. "Park tomorrow?"

John yawned. "Mm."

"John?"

"Mm?"

Sherlock turned to look at him closely and whispered, very seriously, "'I'm your angel?'"

John looked back at Sherlock and whispered in return, equally seriously, "'I'm your strawberry?'"

Sherlock's lips twitched. John raised his eyebrows. They slid down to sleep, giggling.

* * *

_A little bit more to come...!_

_xxx_


	6. Epilogue: How I Like It

**EPILOGUE: How I Like It**

John sat at their cluttered work table on a still and rainy afternoon, typing on his laptop. When he felt a wet tickle slide across the outer rim of his ear he nearly jumped out of his chair with a startled yelp. He looked up over his shoulder at Sherlock, who had appeared out of nowhere to loom above him. "Sherlock...you _ninja_...did you just _lick_ me?"

Sherlock's leaned down and pressed a light kiss to John's neck. "Surprise licking. It wasn't one of _my_ rules. You should have thought that one through."

John reached up and yanked one of Sherlock's curls and was rewarded with an offended, "ouch!"

John hooked his finger around the curl, gently this time, holding Sherlock in place. "Behave."

"Yes, John." Sherlock wrapped an arm around him and buried his nose in the crook of John's shoulder.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Sherlock nuzzled his neck.

"I like this."

"I'm going to lick you again soon," Sherlock hummed into his ear.

"It's not a surprise if you warn me," John pointed out.

"Oh, I think you'll still find it surprising," Sherlock promised.

* * *

- xxx -

* * *

John, Sally, and Lestrade clustered in the detective inspector's office at New Scotland Yard as John related details of their latest case. Sherlock leaned against the wall several feet away, looking bored.

Sally was laughing. "That's so sweet! And so funny that Sherlock was clueless! Convinced the whole time it was an affair? Like that's all people ever do, I suppose?" John quirked an ironic brow at her and she cleared her throat and found something suddenly interesting in her case file folder.

"Monica Grant phoned me the day after to thank us. She was quite giddy. She had called to settle the bill, too, but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it." John glanced at Sherlock, who had started idly flipping his phone in the air, with no small amount of pride.

"Well, I think it's a nice story. Heart-warming, you know? Are you going to put this one in the blog, then?" Lestrade asked, moving to his desk chair and propping his feet up on his desk.

"Absolutely. I've almost finished it. Mostly I want everyone to know about a case Sherlock got wrong!" John teased and waited for Sherlock's protest. "The Case of the Great Misperception?" he suggested mischievously.

"John, you have to consider the potential ramifications of publically suggesting I am fallible. Bad for business." Sherlock scolded him, and John snorted. "I propose...'The Adventure of the Extraordinarily Gifted Detective'!" Sherlock countered expansively. Then he ducked his head to cast a small, secret smile at John, his eyes sparkling.

John's breath caught. "Yes, I like that."

Lestrade looked at two remarkably silly grins and wondered if he'd missed some sort of joke. He shrugged it off and started to fill them in on the latest case.

* * *

- xxx-

* * *

They lounged together on the sofa, Sherlock stretched out with his head resting in John's lap, in the flickering light of some television show John had wanted to watch, but he wasn't really watching. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he wasn't really sleeping. John ran the fingers of one hand over the soft brown leather of the sofa and the fingers of his other hand lightly through Sherlock's hair.

"You're beautiful," John murmured low and sweet, his hand moving to brush Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock smiled slightly and shrugged, opening his eyes. "It's my face."

"Not your looks. I mean _you_."

A thrill ran through Sherlock's body at the warmth in John's eyes, his voice, his heart. His.

John's tone returned to its usual, snappier, conversational tone. "Although you _are_ really fucking hot." And he pinched Sherlock's nose.

"Quid id."

John giggled. "So _very_ hot. Majestically handsome."

"Led go by doze."

"Have I mentioned how sexy your voice is?"

"You're going do _bay_ for dis."

"Yes, talk mean to me, I like it." John bit his lip and widened his eyes.

Sherlock shoved the coffee table out of the way with his foot, reached up and grabbed John around the shoulders, and tumbled him onto the floor.

* * *

- xxx-

* * *

John dropped his shopping bags in the kitchen. "A little help here?" he called, and received no response. He sighed and peered into the living room. Sherlock was folded up in his grey-green leather chair in his pyjamas and rattiest t-shirt, typing away on John's laptop.

"Oi!" John called. "That is still _my_ laptop. You _do_ have one of your own!"

"John, consider it a motivator for you to come up with a password it takes me more than ten seconds to guess." Sherlock smirked, not looking up from the screen. "And by the way, your recent browser history is _fascinating_."

John blushed scarlet, recalling that he had spent the previous evening perusing gay sex tips online while Sherlock was out on a late-night visit to the morgue. He stormed in and snatched the laptop out of Sherlock's hands, snapping it shut. "Damn it, Sherlock, there is still such a thing as _privacy_, even in a relationship. _Especially_ in a relationship." Sherlock looked at him forlornly, and John sighed. "I got the jar full of those beetles you wanted from that utterly creepy veterinarian. And enjoy them, because I am _never_ going back _there_ again. You'd better put them in the fridge. On the proper shelf this time, please."

"Oh, excellent!" Sherlock jumped up, happy again, and hurried to the kitchen. John heard the rustle of shopping bags. "And John? I bookmarked some _really_ good ideas," Sherlock called cheerfully. "Twelve more for my list!"

John peeked into the kitchen to make sure Sherlock was preoccupied with his bugs and then quickly and quietly opened the laptop and scanned his new bookmarks.

_Interesting_. He _was_ going to like that...

* * *

- xxx -

* * *

"John, be quiet," Sherlock snapped, not looking up from the notes he had scattered all around him as he sat cross-legged on the rug.

John pushed himself up from his slumped posture in his chair and blinked. "I didn't say anything. I wasn't even moving."

"You were thinking. It's distracting."

John leaned back and rubbed his face, sighing. He actually hadn't been thinking. He'd been staring at the wallpaper, feeling extremely mellow and getting closer and closer to falling asleep. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been flouncing around in a strop all morning for no apparent reason. "What was I thinking about, then?"

Sherlock looked up at him impatiently. "I'm not a mind-reader, John. And what does it matter _what_ you were thinking?"

"Then how do you know I _was_ thinking?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Let's try again. What am I thinking about...now?" John let his eyes rake over Sherlock's body.

Sherlock's eyelids flickered. "You're not making this very challenging. You are thinking about me."

John let his gaze rest on Sherlock's throat. He licked his lips. "More specifically?"

"You are thinking...about sex with me." Sherlock rustled a stack of papers, tipped his head to the side, just a little, making his neck longer on the side where John was looking.

"And is it distracting?"

"Yes." Sherlock cleared his throat. "But I like it. Carry on."

John smiled and settled back, closing his eyes. Sherlock returned to his notes, also smiling.

* * *

- xxx -

* * *

"John?" Sherlock nudged John's shoulder. "John, are you awake?"

John rolled over sleepily, untangling his legs from Sherlock's under the warm covers. "Whzzt?"

"I am." Sherlock rubbed his nose in John's hair.

"You're what?" John murmured.

"Awake."

"Thanks for the update," John rolled back over.

"John?" Sherlock slid a warm hand under John's t-shirt. "I have a question."

John rolled over again. "And it can't wait for morning?"

Sherlock pouted, "You know I can't sleep when there's a question to be answered." He ran his fingers just under the waistband at the side of John's pyjama bottoms.

John wriggled a little to sit up and sighed, scrubbing sleep from his face with his palms. "All right? What is it?" Sherlock had left his window curtains open and the night's glow cast a rectangle of soft light across the bed.

Sherlock rolled over on his side and propped his head up with one hand. "Do you remember when you said that you loved every square centimetre of me?"

John's lips quirked, his eyes crinkling. "That's your question?"

"No." Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, snapping the elastic of John's waistband. "_This_ is the question: Which is your _favourite_?"

"My favourite." John nodded, pursing his lips. "You want me to choose my favourite centimetre of you."

"John," Sherlock frowned at him scoldingly. "It's an important question."

"I see, yes, very important." John pulled himself up onto his knees and yanked the covers off Sherlock's body, all the way to his feet, in one extravagant sweep. Sherlock was, as he was many nights in bed, naked. Half-hard already and gloriously, languidly, mouth-wateringly naked. His own personal pornographic buffet. John looked him up and down intently. "This may take some time to sort out."

"That's acceptable," Sherlock allowed. "I want you to make an informed decision."

"Well, let's see..." John leaned in and kissed Sherlock's belly, just above his navel. "I like this."

His left nipple. "And this bit is very nice."

The soft skin on the inside of his thigh. "I like this."

"And I like this." Hip bone.

"And this."

"And this."

Sherlock closed his eyes and purred.

* * *

xxx

_Thank you so much for reading and for your reviews, favorites, and follows!_


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